Two Years Without Him
by MrsHeftyTurtle
Summary: John had fallen from the St. Bart's Hospital roof to his death, leaving Sherlock all alone in the world. This is the point of view of Sherlock and how he handles living without John, his blogger. [Johnlock]
1. Chapter 1: Without John

**AN: This is just a new little story I started for a friend of mine. Enjoy.**

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**_Chapter 1: Without John_ **

It's like you're screaming and no one can hear you. You almost feel ashamed that someone could be that important, that without them you feel nothing. No one will ever understand how much it hurts. You feel hopeless, like nothing can save you. When it's over and it's gone, you almost wish you could have all that bad stuff back so that you could have the good.

Sherlock had been on his way to St. Bart's hospital when he had gotten the call from John. John told him to stay where he was and look up. Once Sherlock did, he saw him. He saw John at the edge of the building getting ready to fall. Sherlock begged, feeling his heart sink into his stomach, he begged John not to do it. He begged him to get off the ledge and go to Molly's office, but John didn't listen. John hung up and fell to his death.

Sherlock didn't know what to do, he stood frozen in place while watching John's body fall. After what seemed like eternity, Sherlock had found the strength to run to John's body. People had surrounded him, nurses and doctor's feeling his pulse. Sherlock pushed through everyone, telling them to move. He just wanted to hold John's body to bring him back to life. Sherlock had been able to push through the crowd and get past the nurse to feel John's pulse, there was nothing. Three people were pulling Sherlock away from John's body while others were lifting John's body onto a gurney. They took John away from him.

The day everything happened, Sherlock didn't really know what to do with his life. He went back to 221B Baker Street and went right to their living room. He sat in his chair and stared at the spot where John would always sit. He didn't move or yell to Mrs. Hudson. He never got up. He just sat there, staring.

Mrs. Hudson must have heard the news and came rushing upstairs, pushing the door open and hugging Sherlock tightly. He still didn't move. She was crying and apologizing, saying she was so sorry he was dead. Sherlock ignored her. He acted like she wasn't there. After some time, she must have realized he didn't want her attention and she went back downstairs.

Now, today was John's funeral. Two days ago he had taken his life. Sherlock had tried every possible theory and deduction in the past two days to prove that John wasn't really dead. He couldn't be. It just was not possible. John had promised Sherlock that he would never, under any circumstances, harm Sherlock in any way. That's what he did though. Greatly.

Sherlock had dressed in a black button-up and in his usual blazer. He was standing in front of his mirror, staring at himself. He hadn't slept since John died. He had horrible bags under his eyes, his skin was paler than usual, he looked horrid. He heard Mrs. Hudson call for him to go downstairs, so he did. He grabbed his coat and scarf while walking out the door, closing it, and he walked down the stairs. He stopped mid-step, almost falling, as memories of him and John flooded into his mind. Their first time at the apartment, the first case they did, the last case, everything. Sherlock caught himself on the railing and stood there. He took in a deep breath to calm himself down and continued down the stairs. He met Mrs. Hudson outside the apartment complex, she was calling for a cab. She looked back at Sherlock and gave him a warm smile, he didn't return the smile. He just stood there, waiting for a cab to pull up. Once a cab finally decided to stop at the curb, Mrs. Hudson opened the door for Sherlock and he got in. She followed behind and told the cabbie the address of the funeral home. The cabbie pulled out from the curb and headed on it's way to the funeral home. Sherlock was staring out the window, watching walkers on the sidewalk go by and cars pass in the opposite direction.

They arrived at the funeral home and Sherlock had noticed a few other familiar cars in the parking lot, such as Molly's and Lestrade's. He didn't know who the other cars belonged to though. He got out of the cab and heard Mrs. Hudson paying the cabbie, Sherlock walked into the funeral home without her. Being greeted by a worker, who led him to the room where the actual funeral was being held. Sherlock stopped before walking into the room, at the far end he saw the casket laying on a table; it was closed. Sherlock could not bring himself to walk into the room, so he stood outside of the room for quite some time.

Lestrade walked out of the room and noticed Sherlock leaning on the wall with his eyes closed. He walked over to him slowly.

"Sherlock..? Are you alright? Why haven't you come in yet?" Lestrade asked, hesitant and upset. Sherlock didn't say anything, he opened his eyes and looked at Lestrade in confusion. He looked down at the floor then, with a quick motion, walked through the door into the room. He tried looking every where but the casket. It was impossible. Sherlock was unable to direct his eyes off of it. He took a deep breath and sat down in one of the chairs away from the front row. He placed his hands together on his lap. The room was very silent and had an eerie feeling to it. Sherlock heard the faint sound of mail business shoes tapping the floor, Mycroft had arrived. Mycroft walked over and sat down beside Sherlock.

"Hello, brother dear. I had an important meeting I had to cancel for this occasion." Mycroft spoke in an irritated tone, as if the meeting was oh-so important. "Are you going to play the quiet game, I see?" Mycroft asked in a teasing tone, he also seemed frustrated with his brother for being so childish. "I don't understand why you are so upset. It's like the others, Sherlock, people die. It's only natural, is it not?" Sherlock still refused to speak to Mycroft, even if he was going to be a complete narcissist about the situation they were in. "I hope you get over this little fit soon, brother dear, I have something for you to solve and I believe you would enjoy it at up-most respect." Mycroft got up from the chair and walked out. Sherlock turned his head slightly, glaring at Mycroft as he exited the room.

Sherlock could hear the faint cries of Molly Hooper in the back of the room, she was trying to hold in her tears but she was having a big issue with it. She ended up hiccupping and making small, and weird, noises as she tried to hold it all in. Sherlock looked back at her, watching her wipe her nose in a tissue and dab her eyes with a different tissue. He looked away, he didn't want to watch someone cry over John.

After the funeral was the burial, where everyone had to find a ride to the cemetery and watch John's casket get buried. Sherlock wanted to skip out on this, but Mrs. Hudson wanted to go. She had informed him that it gave her the acceptance she needed. So, as they stood around the spot where John was to be placed, with a crane that was going to slowly place the casket in the whole, Sherlock noticed how there were more people than expected here. He didn't know where they all came from or how John knew them all, but there was quite a crowd around him. Probably coworkers of John's and possibly, but unlikely, some form of family members.

As the priest said a few words, the casket was lowered into the hole. It seemed to happen very fast, because the next thing Sherlock remembered was Mrs. Hudson telling him to come back home at a reasonable time. No one else was standing around him and the dirt had been put back in the hole to cover the casket.

Sherlock walked just a bit closer to the grave stone and pulled a note out of his pocket. Attached to the note was a string and tied to the string was an engagement ring. The one Sherlock was going to use to ask John to marry him, before all of this had happened. Sherlock took the note and opened it, carefully, trying to keep the string attached. He didn't read the note to himself, he knew what it said. He had written it over and over, hundreds of times. He kissed the note and closed it, then carefully placed it on the gravestone, in a place where it would never disappear. Sherlock stood up, putting his hands in his pockets, he stared at the gravestone.

"I'll miss you, John Hamish Watson. I'll miss you very much. You were great to me. The greatest, anyone has ever been to me. I swear on that. There were times where I thought I was so lonely.. Then you.. Then you showed up. You made me.. You made me think differently about people and you made me feel like I could have these.. These emotions for someone. That someone was you, you know. I never got the true chance to tell you how you meant to me, John, I never did. I wish I would have asked you sooner. I really do. Maybe it would have changed this.. Changed this outcome. I.. I love you, John. And I don't want to ever believe that you are truly dead."


	2. Chapter 2: The First Few Days

**AN: Apologies for such a short chapter but here you go. I'm basing Sherlock's emotions and actions off of my own personal experiences, so I hope you enjoy.**

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_**Chapter 2: The first few days**_

The first few days after the funeral and burial were the worst. Sherlock went on a rage one night, kicking and punching everything in sight. He had knocked over John's chair and had thrown it down the stairs, never wanting to see it again. When Sherlock had thrown the chair down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson came knocking up the steps yelling at him. He ignored her, he was still angry.

"Oh shut up! You can throw the chair out!" Yelling back at her, he didn't care what she had to say.

"Sherlock Holmes! I understand you're in pain and I know you miss him dearly, but this attitude is unnecessary and childish, even for you!" Mrs. Hudson attempted to get the chair from the stairway, but couldn't manage. She let out a painful groan and gave up, returning to her rooms. Sherlock plopped in his chair, staring at the kitchen. He kept imagining John sitting in his chair across from him, reading the daily paper and drinking his morning tea. Sherlock groaned, no, he's not real. He's not really there. John's dead. He's never coming back. Sherlock put his hands on his face and yelled to himself. Removing his hands, he noticed that the apparition of John and his chair had disappeared.

Sherlock got up and dusted himself off. His anger subsided and he calmly walked over to his violin, picking up the bow first and brushing his fingers across the horse hairs. He picked up his violin, thus flooding memories of nights where he and John would stay up together for hours in the night; Sherlock would play a song for John and John would sit on the couch, smiling.

Sherlock glanced at the couch, there was no hallucination or apparition of John. Sherlock used the bow of the violin to slightly move the blinds to reveal the rare, sunny London morning. Sherlock stood, towering over the window and placed the violin under his chin. Just before he was going to play something, he heard John's voice in his head. "_What are you going to play for me tonight, Sherlock? I'm in the mood for something calm._" Sherlock put the violin down.

Through gritted teeth, he said to himself, "Get out. Get out of my head." Sherlock closed the blinds and put the violin into its case. He sat down on he couch and pulled his knees to his chest, resting his head on his knees. He closed his eyes and sighed calmly, slowly entering his mind palace..

_"John? John where are you? I miss you.." Sherlock was wandering around the flat, bored. He couldn't find John anywhere, well, he actually didn't even bother to check any place, but the kitchen. It was too much work. "Joohn? Are you in our room?" Sherlock heard shuffling from their bedroom earlier, giving him suspicion that's that was where John is. Sherlock decided to get up and walk over to the bedroom door, putting his hand on the door knob and turning slightly. When he entered the room, he saw John laying on their bed with a pool of blood under him._

Sherlock took in a deep breath and snapped himself out of his mind palace, he wasn't safe from the haunting memories there either. What was he to do? He couldn't live with this.. Maybe he'd call Lestrade and spend time with him. He took the thought from his mind, Lestrade was boring and stupid, Sherlock didn't need to be near that. He needed something.. He needed his nicotine, yes, that'd help calm his nerves. There were no murders, it's the only thing he had. So, he began to search for them, he was unable to remember where he had placed his secret stash, yelling for Mrs. Hudson, who refused to respond. He plopped down on his chair and let out a frustrated sigh, where could they be? He knew he had placed them somewhere..

Sherlock jumped up from his chair and walked fast to the kitchen, opening the fridge door, inside he found the packet of cigarettes packed neatly behind severed fingers. He remembered that that was where John had placed them the first time. Sherlock removed the pack from the fridge, closing the door with his left elbow. He unsealed the pack and pulled out a single cigarette, it was cold to the touch from sitting in the fridge for so long. He put the cigarette under his nose and inhaled deeply, smelling all of the toxins and chemicals in one sniff. He smiled to himself, then searched for a lighter. After finding one under the couch, he sat down and lit the cigarette. He took a deep inhale of the smoke, sitting back, he watched the smoke roll out of his mouth.

"_Those are bad for your health._" There was John's voice again. Sherlock let out a groan. "Get out of my mind, I don't care what you have to say." That wasn't true, Sherlock cared deeply for everything John ever said to him. "_Breathing is important, you know._" Sherlock groaned again and inhaled the cigarette, blowing out the smoke to show John that he didn't care about breathing; it was boring.

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Sherlock woke up, sitting up on the couch with the cigarette in his mouth still. He took it out and looked down, the ashes had fallen onto his lap, burning little holes in his newer pants. He got up and brushed the ashs onto the ground and walked to the kitchen, walking around the spot where John's chair should be, and threw the cigarette out. He noticed a cup of tea sitting on the counter and picked it up, underneath was a note from Mrs. Hudson.

_Re-filled the fridge for you deary, John's chair was moved into his old bedroom. Made you some sweets and your favorite kind of tea. _

_Enjoy,_

_Mrs. Hudson_

Sherlock crumpled the note and tossed it at the trash can, the note bounced off the trash can and fell to the floor. Sherlock ignored it and sipped the tea, sweeter than normal, he cringed at the first sip and almost decided to spit it out. He placed the cup back on the counter and walked over to the fridge to see what Mrs. Hudson had put in there. Nothing good. He closed the fridge door and walked over the the table in the living room, taking his phone off the charger.

"Would you like to go out to eat?" Sherlock asked outloud, turning to where John's chair would be, assuming he was there. "Oh." He acted as if he never said anything and picked up the morning paper that Mrs. Hudson always placed on the coffee table. Flipping through it, he was unable to find any good cases. "Nothing good today, John." He looked up from the paper to where John's chair would be and sighed to himself. He closed the paper and slammed it on the coffee table. He put his head down and ruffled his hair, letting out a frustrated yell.

He got up and grabbed his coat and scarf, putting them on smoothly, he walked down the stairs and out the door into the crisp London morning air. He pulled his coat closer to his chest and put his hands in his coat pockets. Sherlock decided to go for a walk in the park, to clear his mind, to get all the thoughts of John from his mind. It was impossible, this man that he had spent so many years with and so many memories, would forever clog his mind.

Sherlock loved John, he still does love him. Sherlock felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out, hoping it was something intesting. Sadly, it was just a text from his brother.

_Care to join me for breakfast? I have a very important matter to inform you of and I know you'll enjoy it._

_Mycroft Holmes_

Sherlock thought about the text for a bit and shrugged to himself, he didn't have anything else to do, might as well. He looked at the street, as if on cue, a black car pulled up with tinted windows and the door opened. Sherlock got into the car and pulled the door closed, listening to the constant tapping of Anthea's fingers on her mobile device.


	3. Chapter 3: Breakfast With Mycroft

**Breakfast With Mycroft**

Sherlock sat down across from his older brother, who was sitting back in his chair reading the paper. Sherlock looked at his brother and did a few deductions, noticing a small stain on the tip of his tie, _coffee._ Mycroft had finished a morning workout before leaving to come here, sweat stains remained on his forehead. He was bored, uninterested with the paper. Mycroft glanced up at his brother, noticing that he was being deduced and placed the paper at the side of the table.

He moved closer to the table, placing his elbows on the outside of the menu and his hands under his chin and smiled at Sherlock.

"Smile, brother dear. It's a new day."

"New day?" Sherlock huffed. "Do you understand what I'm dealing with Mycroft? Does it matter to you?"

"Yes, I understand and I do care Sherlock, but I have never in my life expected you to care so much for someone that when they die, this is how you react. Mrs. Hudson has told me about your anger. What is this? It's been one week, Sherlock. I don't see you heading down a good path. Start forgetting. Move on. People die."

Sherlock sat back in anger. Wanting to throw punches at his older brother, but he didn't, he couldn't. Mycroft was right, Sherlock needed to move on and forget about John. He didn't exactly know how to forget about John. He had done so much with him, he had done everything with John. The anger didn't subside, but Sherlock decided to push it out of the way. He could release that later and alone. Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and picked up the menu impatiently.

"Anything of interest, brother dear?" Mycroft asked, sending a questioning glance his way.

"Hmm.. No." Sherlock placed the menu back onto the table and placed his hands under his chin. Closing his eyes, he drifted into his mind palace once more.

John. Every where. At every corner of his mind _there he was. _Yelling for him, calling out his name, whispering for him to come back home, to calm down, _to kiss him_. Sherlock tried so hard to shake him out, to wash him away, but he stopped himself. He was starting to remember a picnic they had, one of their first times together. They went to the nearest park and John had packed a splendid meal for them to enjoy. John was the only person who could make Sherlock laugh, _really _laugh. John would make such boring and simple jokes, but how he said those boring and simple jokes made Sherlock smile and let out his deep, roaring laugh. That was the day Sherlock opened up, sort of, to John. He told him a few family stories and a few things of his childhood, although never bringing up Redbeard. Sherlock would never tell anyone of Redbeard, only Mycroft and his parents knew about him. John seemed so content and happy that Sherlock was opening his life up to someone. That was the day they first kissed, it was an accident. John went to grab his water and slipped, falling onto Sherlock and crashing his lips against the other's. Sherlock didn't push him back, he didn't stop him, _he held onto him. _He let John kiss him and hold him back and pull him closer. He let John run his fingers through his curls and he never wanted to let go. He could still feel the warmth of John's lips on his and the tingly feeling he got every time John had touched him.

"Sherlock? Answer me, Sherlock." Mycroft sounded angry. Sherlock snapped out of his mind palace and glanced at Mycroft who had a very agitated face.

"What?"

"Did you hear anything I said?" Mycroft said, impatient.

"No."

Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes.

"I said that you should order something to eat and we can be on our way, do you understand? You must eat, you know. It's unhealthy not to."

"I can last a few days."

Mycroft looked at him, concerned and pissed off. He wasn't going to have any of this _"I'll be okay" _stuff with Sherlock. After finally agreeing to eat something, they were in a black car on the way back to Baker Street.

"Are you sure you'll be alright staying here, Sherlock?"

"Yes. I'll be fine." _Liar, _Sherlock heard John's voice in his head, _you're not okay. Tell him the truth. _"Shut. Up." Sherlock muttered to himself.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. I said nothing." The car stopped and one of Mycroft's workers opened the door for Sherlock, allowing him to step out.

"I want to speak with you again, you know."

"We'll see." Sherlock said as he walked towards the familiar black door with 221B in gold plated numbers/letter on it. He unlocked it and walked up the stairs cautiously to his apartment. Once he entered, he placed his coat in the usual spot and sat back down in his chair. He didn't look at where John would be, he stared at the ground.

_Look at me, Sherlock. _There was his voice again. _Please, Sherlock I miss you. _

"Stop it, you're not real. Shut up. You're dead. You're not there, stop!"

_How could you say that about me Sherlock? I'm alive. I'm here._

"I said shut up!" Sherlock slammed his fist on the table and heard a slight crack in the glass. He groaned and pushed himself out of his chair, walking to the kitchen. He glanced down the hallway, looking at their bedroom door. He really should take a nap.. but the couch seemed like a better option lately.


End file.
